The Affliction Known As Nostalgia
by Castellan
Summary: Like mother, like son: with his perception skewed, John doesn’t realize how the choices he is making parallel some of mistakes and sacrifices Sarah made for him over the years. Series of vignettes Mildly implied John/Cameron and Sarah/Derek


**TITLE: **The Affliction Known as Nostalgia**  
RATING:** T**  
AUTHOR:** Castellan Craft**  
WARNINGS: **(Will be posted on a per-chapter basis) This section: coarse language.**  
TIMELINE:** Pre-Terminator 2 till Samson & Delilah.

**SUMMARY:** Like mother, like son: with his perception skewed, John doesn't even realize how the painful choices he is now making parallel the many mistakes and sacrifices his mother made for him over the years as he looks back on them. (Series of vignettes) (Mildly implied John/Cameron and Sarah/Derek)

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
1)** Please note that there is some time line confusion in the Terminator franchise that I did not write; in particular, whether the events of Terminator 2 took place in 1995 or 1997. I'm using the TV show's version that says early '97. (Although, they confused themselves even further by saying John was 15 (and would have been turning 16) in 1999 when he'd actually be 14 as his birthday is February 28th, 1985. ARGH. *headdesk*)**  
2)** Well, to those -ahem- that requested this (you know who you are), I guess you'll get your F'ed-up-in-the-head-John fic after all. Don't know if I got in all of your *cough* requests though.**  
3)** The introductory section is the only one out of chronological order, all other pieces follow after the one before, including the ones that take place in the same year. This structure will make more sense once the epilogue is in place.**  
DISCLAIMER:** All of the characters contained herein are the property of their respective owners. I'm just taking them for a night on the town. I can't guarantee we'll be back before curfew though.

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2007

John hoped his hands wouldn't stay numb for long. Despite sweaty palms and a racing heart, his fingers had gone cold. A white knuckled grip on his gun wasn't helping that. The fact that he was pointing that gun at his own mother didn't lend any warmth either.

He spared a glance down at Cameron, still dusted in thermite and dead to the world. He hoped, damn near could have _prayed_, for some click, some whir, some sign of… life? Something that could end the tense moment of watching and waiting and holding everyone hostage to the event with a 9mm. The event of the god damn century that very well could end his life and that of mankind with him, culminating in the mother of all Darwin awards.

Only a glance down before he had to shift his eyes back up to the expectant audience and remind them at gun point who was conducting this final score. Charley was in disbelief. Derek looked damn well fit to throttle him. It was the look on his mother's face though that could have made him scream.

No anger. No rage. Just standing tears he knew she was so fucking good at never letting fall and all the understated twitches and twists of her features that after 16 years he could translate as abject terror. Not for herself. Terror for _him, _all for him. He was holding a gun to the head of Sarah Connor, paramilitary badass extraordinaire and she was scared for _him._ Damn her if she didn't know just how to guilt trip him without even saying a word. She didn't have the right, not after today. Did she? No, he'd crossed a line for her today and could have been spared it: she had her fingers fisted in Margos Sarkissian's hair only yesterday with his head planted firmly under hand. Just a little more pressure… could she have shattered the man? On a physical level, maybe, but in the end… no. It wasn't in her programming. She could run from a threat, subdue it even, but never completely remove it from the picture it seemed. Without a threat to protect him from, she had no meaning, no purpose… no _life_. And Sarah Connor couldn't self terminate. As this theory formed, John could practically taste the bile in his throat.

Standing center stage, he wondered if a friend or foe would wake. An ally whom he'd never have to kill for and could be a walking weapon with no regrets. The timeline was already fucked, wasn't it? He'd never be _her _John exactly: the Future John she took orders from. How could he be if he couldn't even stomach one little life of an Armenian mobster flickering and dying out under his hands? Future John would kick his own ass for even coming close to crying. If he was always within Cameron's parameters, but she was just outside his control, how could he be responsible for everything she did? It would be lovely to be standing here now without regret. Or would she be an enemy that would surely take his life and gift him the lifting of this burden? When she woke and he set aside his gun, a feeling deep in the pit of his stomach was oddly content with taking a final bow. Though knowing Cameron's efficiency, he likely wouldn't get a single bar or even a single beat to say goodbye and would just find himself ended before any final act of dignity.

He was trading one scapegoat for another in the end. Both bore the responsibility of his protection. Both had nearly undone him, directly or indirectly.

After staring down the barrel of the same gun in his hands for far too long today, John realized the two he was so torn between had more in common then they'd ever realize. He could fire on Cameron at any time and she'd come to no harm. And Sarah? She'd never be hurt because he'd never be able to pull the trigger. Maybe that was why he was so angry; the fact that she didn't realize he couldn't hurt her. That the menace of the weapon in his hands was nothing but an excuse. That he'd rather see his mother angry and livid in the face of his threat then bear the sight of her in not-quite-tears offering worthless pity for the days earlier events.

John Connor was a Freudian Field Day.


End file.
